


Spaces

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's 8, Ocean’s Eight
Genre: F/F, Heist Wives, Lou in a green sparkle jumpsuit was life changing, They love each other, pry this ship from my cold dead hands, the two get married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: Any space with Lou in it was space for Debbie too.





	Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Debbie sitting in Lou’s lap drinking wine while Lou has her glasses on doing her club taxes and she says “you know if we were married I could deduct taxes on this” OR SOMETHING LIKE THAY OKAY.”
> 
> It’s been a while but.

Space is only something you notice when you realise it’s gone. Space that’s yours, and yours alone, or just quiet and private. Privacy too, that’s pretty important, and something Debbie always valued. Silence, too: the moments to yourself that you don’t realise you needed until you don’t have them anymore. 

Debbie always preferred the quiet, always made sure to have a few hours to herself, a sort of recalibration each morning. A cup of coffee and a book, or a notepad, or just a window to look out from - that was her preference, and one Lou had always respected; willingly, and simply because Lou never liked mornings that much anyway. They had a respect, once upon a time, of space and desire and they danced with one another, brewing coffee curled up on the sofa waking up together. 

 So mornings were important, and slow - except when they weren’t, riding on the high of a heist, slamming into motel suits at 4am and falling on the bed in a whirlwind of sleep deprivation and Adrenalin; ordering Chinese takeout and watching re-runs of CSI sitting on the hard cash or jewels or authenticated Degas paintings ready to be fenced the moment they pulled it together and reached out to Tammy. But for the moment, they could wallow in victory, another day and another success, Debbie’s mind whirling away. This is why she needed the quiet. Just a moment to herself to sort the turmoil in her head, usually hop-skipping to the next heist, swimming through a hundred other thoughts and concerns until she couldn’t think at all, circling round and round the next idea and at that point she could all but forget sleep; until a gentle hand on her thigh, pulling her out of it, asking for a slice of pizza, or if she thought the new Fast and Furious looked watchable. Debbie hated Fast and Furious, and so did Lou, but the trailer had just played in the ad break, and Lou couldn’t resist the tease. Then Debbie would relax, would silently thank Lou in whatever capacity because somehow she knew that Debbie needed calm. 

Prison, then, hadn’t been all that fun. Neither had Claude Becker, really, a man who respected nothing of her desires except money and the latest minimalist trend, because she grew tired of him quickly, and his incessant noise, half of it completely unnecessarily. She’d never met anyone who talked so much and with so little substance - or rather: had never tolerated them for so long. But something misguided made her stay, and, perhaps, something destructive, even as Lou stayed by her side - even as Debbie pushed her away, kept her at a new arms length and told herself that Lou was not hers, and not for her, and partners in crime only. 

 Quiet, and solitude, and finding someone just open enough to accept the quiet meant everything to Debbie Ocean. Her brother was loud and cerebral: he had a flare for the dramatic and a need to be known. Debbie liked the quiet victory: the problem and the planning of it, leading a quiet heist with the biggest pay-off. And Lou. Lou was always there. Of course she was, because Lou was her shadow and her knight in shining armour and if anyone so much as looked her funny, Lou was there. Not that she couldn’t handle herself, but it was endearing, her silent protector. Silent being the key word, because Lou was dramatic and aloof, but she was subtle in her way, just like Debbie. Like the same sandwich, cut slightly different.

 Prison was a revelation, really. A revelation of what Debbie Ocean could do when it came down to it. Because it wasn’t fun and breezy, and though she’d die before she told Lou everything, something had shifted in there. A part of her had grown a little harder and a little stronger: isolating and devoted only to her survival. Lou. Lou gnawed at her, though. Sending a phone, and a single letter. Plus a pack of pads and bulk bought duty-free Russian cigarettes (“not for you, Jailbird, but I hear the going rate is good, and I know you’re not one for the hard stuff. Don’t start smoking in there, it’s a bad habit and you may be a fucker but you’re not a hypocrite”). The phone, when she turned it on, had three numbers. One she knew was Danny’s; one Reuben; and the third was Lou. Marked ICE. In Case of Emergencies. She might have forcibly kicked herself from Lou’s wavelength, but she still knew her well enough to know what that meant. Don’t call me unless it’s dire. Don’t message. But I’m here. It made her heart clench, and were she anyone else, it might have all come crashing down on her then, everything that had happened. She might’ve gone to the communal showers and turned one on, fully clothed and drenched in water, and sobbed. But she was Debbie Ocean, and she still had her wits about her, and she knew that crying alone in the shower was a recipe for disaster.

She did as she was told. She avoided drugs, she bartered the cigarettes and weaselled her way into kitchen duty. Her supplier (she knew who it was and every time the kitchen got a delivery, she couldn’t help but feel a smile and a flutter like it was a love note hidden between frozen chicken strips and dehydrated carrots) was always on time. Debbie didn’t cave in, and she didn’t surrender, but her head hurt almost as much as everything else. 

Danny died. She almost called Lou the day she found out. Almost. ICE. This was an emergency, right? But she didn’t want their first conversation in 4 years, 10 months and 21 days to be about this. That wasn’t the way she was going to talk to Lou. She had to think of something bigger, and grander, and soul consumingly apologetic. Debbie was sorry, and she missed her best friend and partner (in crime), and she hated the way she couldn’t let herself adore that woman who (as far as Debbie knew) had given her a devoted soul. 

The quiet, in prison, was not quiet. It was white noise. First, she could drown it out, and she soon established a quiet with her cell mates (they didn’t talk to her; she ignored them), but they still chatted amongst themselves and Debbie could do nothing but think and think and think until she snapped. Because she needed something calm, something that wasn’t about to make her brain melt under the weight of every perception. So she landed herself in solitary, and wiped her mind clean of everything. And she planned - she was always planning, but now she could finally hear herself think, could jump to the next plan, to the idea that had consumed her for the past 5 years 8 months and 12 days. Because if she was going to do something, she was going to do it big. Not flashy, but big. Something that kept her entertained in her cell, and while she chopped potatoes in the kitchen, and watched trash tv in the common room, feet sliding along linoleum tile. She was going to do something Danny told her was a bad idea - brilliant, but bad - and she was going to do it with Lou. Debbie never really had to communicate with Lou. Or she did, but in a way that never needed emphasis. She never needed to explain, or clarify all that much: Lou just knew. So really, she knew Lou knew this was going to be an apology. Sort of an apology. The Met with Lou, or not at all.

Getting out was insane. Absolutely beautiful, and absolutely insane. Stealing, standing on her feet long enough to make it to the hotel, and ignoring the pain in her head. All to collapse, sinking into the bed that wasn’t hers staring at the ceiling with only the city sounds beyond the window, and Debbie could breath. She messaged Lou then, from the bed fully clothed. ICE. Well, this was close enough to an emergency anyway. 

Then, she took a bath. Then she cried.

Lou was there the next day. Met her - she hadn’t doubted for a second that she wouldn’t, because Lou didn’t deserve that, not after everything that had happened - and welcomed her back. They ignored the tensions, the unspokens: all the things normal people address. They’d addressed it already, in contraband sanitary pads and radio silence. And Lou, diving into her space after all this time, felt so goddamn good that she pushed her away. It felt like home again, wherever Lou was; it almost made her want to switch places, to think that maybe she should be Lou’s shadow for a while, just to wallow in everything Lou. And then she wondered if that’s why Lou had done it, stayed with her all this time even when it was dark. Maybe that was why Lou kept her stuff, unpacked and in a room that was undoubtedly kept for Debbie’s return, and maybe that was why Debbie almost cried at the way they curled on the sofa after Lou had called dinner and Debbie had threatened Becket with a toothbrush shiv. Maybe that was why Debbie had curled up close and melted into Lou like butter, and maybe that was why Lou didn’t even flinch, wrapping an arm around Debbie’s shoulders and keeping her together because with Lou, space wasn’t space anymore - any space with Lou was space for Debbie. 

“What’re you thinking, Jailbird?” 

Lou kept her voice low, and Debbie could feel fingers tracing a gentle pattern on her shoulder.

“It has to be you.” 

Debbie didn’t move, jumping off the edge with her words. But Lou just held her tighter.

“Of course.” 

And after everything, when the heist was done and Lou had hung a piece of the Toussaint down her cleavage, Debbie had kissed her. She’d waited long enough, and what better place to kiss than a motorbike outside Lou’s warehouse apartment dressed to the nines. Debbie was on the back, shadowing Lou, burying herself in Lou’s scent and telling herself that this was real; and then the bike had stopped and Lou had looked down at Debbie resting on her shoulder.

“We’re here.” 

And Debbie had looked up at her, and decided she would kiss her. Right after Lou took off their helmets, she was going to kiss her. And she did, wig stuck in the helmet, Lou’s bangs static and in disarray, Debbie had kissed her with a peck, and hopped off. Lou, for her part, said nothing. Didn’t move a muscle, still straddling the bike, so Debbie had looked at her, towering at standing height, and extended her hand.

“Okay?” 

Lou had taken it without hesitation, and stood up, getting off the bike and tugging Debbie close to her. Lou’s hands were gentle and undemanding, skating their way along Debbie’s figure, tracing her face with the ghost of a touch as if trying to remember what she was seeing and if it was real. Then, she had smiled: once Debbie had held her gaze, and Lou had determined what was going on in that overwhelming mind, Lou had smiled and kissed her back, longer and far more languid, and Debbie sunk into her arms.

Constance declared she saw it coming first (which she had) though Tammy maintained she thought they had been together years ago when the trio had first worked a job (she had), and Nineball declined to comment. Rose didn’t know enough, Amita was so oblivious it felt comic, and Daphne barely even knew their names. All in all, not one of them was surprised, and Debbie had assured all of then her judgment would not be compromised by this turn of events. Not that any of them thought it would be: anyone could see Debbie and Lou had been whipped from the start, and no one minded. Nothing much would change. They had stolen far more than they thought they had, had one more member than they thought they had, and all of them agreed Lou’s green jumpsuit had been a look to turn them all. 

Debbie kept only one part of the Toussaint, snug in a drawer, and Lou didn’t mind at all. 

Things settled down, and routine - something Debbie had gotten used to in prison - came back with a vengeance, only this time she didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t settling down (“I am not becoming senile Constance”) but she was getting comfortable in space: with her own space again, with privacy and time and endless possibilities without the structure of prison, or the rules of a heist to hold her in place. Instead she had Lou - after Lou rode across the country like the outlaw she was and kept her updated via the medium of Snapchat - with her presence and her understand and the little touches when they talked and the eyes that told her everything and the safety of the club and the thrill of the small con every once in a while. Sure, they would hit something big again eventually, Debbie couldn’t keep still long enough to give up this life, but for a couple of months she was happy to settle. 

For her part, Lou had a club to run, and taxes to settle, and Debbie, it turned out, was very tactile and very comfortable and one night they found themselves doing taxes st the table, Debbie sat on her lap as they shared a glass of red wine. It was uncomfortable, except for the kisses Debbie was running up her neck that made taxes seem completely unnecessary.

“You're going to have to stop that.” 

Debbie hummed, nibbled a little at Lou’s neck in a way that made her breathy. 

“I’d rather not.”

Lou sighed, but with the patience of someone who had to deal with this often. It had, after all, been a long time that they had known each other, and despite everything Debbie was still a big kid at heart, catching up on all the stuff her family let her do without at the age of 9. 

“You could help.” 

Debbie frowned against her neck and gave the papers a sideways glance. 

“Are we keeping these legitimate?” 

The way she said “we” made Lou smile and flutter in a way that made her think she might be going soft. 

“That’s the aim.”

Debbie shrugged against her. “It’s not like you’re al Capone, they won’t care.”

“Al Capone was a gangster not a thief.” 

“Exactly.” 

“I’m not even losing that much money.” 

"But,” Debbie nibbled at her ear, “you could be losing less.” 

Lou put down her pen and sat back in her chair, Debbie’s mouth following her skin. Debbie, holding the glass of wine in her free hand, pulled back a little and brought it to Lou’s lips. Lou took a gulp. 

“We could just get married.” 

Lou’s head snapped to look up at her, ready to take it as a joke. Debbie too, had posed it as a joke, but the sense that both didn’t quite know, that if one was joking then so was the other but if one wasn’t joking then neither was the other, led a precarious nature to their peace. 

“What makes you think I’d say yes?”

“For tax purposes I think you’d consider it.” 

“You’re suggesting marriage for tax purposes?” 

“Well yes. As a joke, but if you seriously wanted to go for it I would agree to it for the benefit of your taxes.” 

Lou didn’t reply, looking back at her papers. Debbie reached awkwardly to put the wine glass on the table, before wrapping her arms around Lou. 

“You’re very uncomfortable,” said Lou, as Debbie readjusted. 

“You haven’t complained this whole time.” 

“Because I’m nice and I like you.” 

“Charmed.”

“You just proposed marriage for tax purposes I’d hardly say that’s romantic.” 

“Oh you love it.” 

Lou raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They hadn’t really talked about the change in things. Two months down the line and it was almost like nothing had changed, except now they had sex and we’re far more willing to give into their impulses for physical contact, drawn together in the space between them. The L word certainly hadn’t been mention, but then again, Debbie had revealed that the Met Heist had largely been a plot to get Lou to like her again, and as grand gestures went that sure was something. Love was implied. 

“Unfortunately.” Lou paused, before continuing. “We could get married.” 

“We could.”

“In Vegas?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“I hope you’re not joking.”

“About you?” Debbie looked at her long and hard. “Never.” 

Lou tilted her head, before smiling. “Vegas tomorrow then.” 

Debbie grinned back. “Vegas.” 

Neither of them moved, until Debbie extricated herself and stood up, tugging Lou by the hand to their bedroom. Lou let herself be dragged. 

The sex that night was explosive and serene; utter devotion and complete turmoil. The planning wasn’t talked about, they just booked their tickets and off they went. Debbie was ecstatic, in her way, waiting for Lou to back out, or change her mind, and battling with herself to stay seated and offer Lou everything. They’d settled on rings - a gold band for Lou, unusually simple for the woman, but all the more eye catching for it; and a white gold band for Debbie - and bought them at the New York Tiffany’s store before their flights. Nineball had messaged, asking where they were going. The alerts set up on their accounts at had pinged at their unusual purchases, but Nineball had the discretion not to put her questioning on the group chat. Debbie assured her all was fine, and Nineball had offered a message of congratulations, before telling the duo that the crew were staying over the following night as of now, so they better be back by then. Both assured that they would, smiling at the newly made plans and grateful to Nineball for understanding their need for space despite no doubt wanting to immediately inform the group. No problem, replied Debbie and Lou, we’ll be back to cook dinner. 

The flight over had been uneventful, though Lou hated flying. The wedding too, was unremarkable. Elvis had been Elvis, and the dying doves released in the church had made them chuckle. Debbie paid for a Penthouse Suit and Lou had almost cried at the gesture because Debbie Ocean never paid for anything and now she had paid for two wedding bands, Elvis, and a penthouse suit in Vegas.

Debbie had taken her to the suit, and they had drunk expensive champagne and lain clothed on the couch. Debbie had cried, softly and apologetic, and Lou had demanded she stop. 

“Deb look at me. Stop. I forgive you. Everything. There was nothing to forgive. You never owed me anything, and you gave me everything anyway. I love you. Please stop crying.” 

Debbie sniffled and cried a little more, but settled down in the crook of Lou’s shoulder and peppered her collar with kisses. 

“I missed you. In prison. I missed you so much I didn’t know what to do.” 

“I put my number in the phone.”

“I know. I almost cried at that. Didn’t want to get shived on my fourth week there though.”

“I thought you’d want space.”

Debbie nodded where she lay. “A little. Really I just wanted to get out. To see you. To tell you everything.”

“And now look at us: married for tax purposes.” 

Debbie looked up at her, eyes wide and trusting. “I love you.” 

“Yeah. Love you too. Even without the tax benefits.”

“Lou Miller I was trying to have a moment.” 

“Well I don’t like to cry, so.” 

“It’s not exactly my favourite pastime either.” Debbie shifted upwards a little, so she was level with Lou’s face. “The others are going to kill us.” 

Lou hummed. “They’ll get over it.” 

Debbie smiled and kissed her slowly, revelling in the way their bodies pressed together, slipping beside one another. She pulled away slightly to catch her breathe, lips close enough to ghost against Lou’s as she spoke.

 “Just tell them about the tax breaks.”


End file.
